


(not saying it is) all made up

by summerstorm



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: kissbingo, Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want a hotel room," Amy realises, suddenly. It's not a bad idea, and she likes the passive-aggressiveness in it. Passive-aggressiveness is a perfectly valid method when both being direct and being subtle mean dropping words into deaf ears. // Set throughout and after 5.10 'Vincent and the Doctor'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not saying it is) all made up

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely too stupid and unplanned a fic to have taken as long to complete as it did and this high a word count, but it was loads of fun to work on, so I'm not complaining. Title from The Kooks' Stormy Weather, with thanks to Annemari for the beta help. &lt;3

1.

"I want a hotel room," Amy realises, suddenly. It's not a bad idea, and she likes the passive-aggressiveness in it. Passive-aggressiveness is a perfectly valid method when both being direct and being subtle mean dropping words into deaf ears.

"What?"

"A hotel room. In Paris. When we get back. Overlooking the Seine. I've always wanted to wake up in the morning and look out the balcony and see Paris. We can spare a night, right? I've got to sleep anyway."

"If that's what you want," the Doctor says, eying her like she's grown a second nose.

"It is," Amy says. She smirks and shifts closer. "And you should stay with me in it."

He turns his face towards her and grins. "No, I should not."

"Fine," she mutters, and walks off.

-

2.

The situation is not improved by Vincent van Gogh asking her if she's shagging the Doctor. He doesn't use exactly those words, but Amy figures, what's an anecdote without a few well-placed embellishments.

She denies it staunchly, of course. His reasoning is flawed, and she likes to argue. Also, she is not shagging the Doctor, through no fault of her own.

"And of course," Vincent carries on as though she didn't say anything, "let's not forget that's a man and a woman travelling in a tiny—phone box, or whatever is its intended purpose—might be a lot bigger than it seems like, but it's still a box, shared by a man and a woman all by themselves for only God knows how long at a time—"

"We're not—_no_," Amy says, eloquent.

"Sounds to me as though you're denying that much too fast and not very genuinely," Vincent points out.

"What if I told you I'm not interested in men that way?"

"I'd say you're lying through your teeth," Vincent says.

"I'm not lying!" Amy lies. "Why would I be lying?"

"Because it's the first thing you thought of," Vincent says, "and if it were true, you wouldn't be so jittery about all of this." She cuts in before he mutters, "Besides, he's hardly a man," but if he's not willing to say those words properly, she doesn't see why she should take note of them.

"I'm not _jittery_. You're just colouring your vision of me with a desire to see something that is—clearly not there."

Vincent nods and says, "A-ha," and Amy sputters out some gibberish. The situation is not deserving of actual words.

"What?" Except maybe that one.

"I see things," Vincent says, and Amy nods for him to go on, "that are not there."

"Right," Amy says. His face's turned sad, and Amy immediately feels horrible. He doesn't need another reason to believe he's mad. "No. They are there. They're just not noticeable right away, that's all. Or visible to everyone."

A grin pops up on his face as he says, "Precisely my point," and Amy immediately feels played.

Whatever. If he can't see reason, she's not going to force it on him. Who cares if Vincent van Gogh believes she's dating the Doctor? Not her, that's for sure. Possibly not even the Doctor. Would the Doctor care to set him straight if Vincent attempted this conversation with him? Amy's sure the Doctor would just blink and stare in acknowledgment, and then turn to more important matters.

So, so should she. So _can_ she. Absolutely. They've got an invisible monster to handle; that's an important matter all right. Let's deal with that.

-

3.

"_Vincent_ sees it," Amy says. "Van Gogh! And you're still denying it."

"Vincent sees it—Vincent sees a lot of things, Pond. The crux is, _what_ does Vincent see in the instance you're going on about, and can you say it quickly so we don't plummet into a black hole because the side of my brain that should be careful not to push any wrong buttons is currently listening to you?"

"You say that like you ever pay any attention to what you're doing on that console."

"This could just be the first time I did, and you just went and ruined it," the Doctor says, and, with a long-suffering sigh, turns to her.

It's almost as though time stills when the Doctor looks at her. The expectancy of it, the attention, it's all so _unfair_.

She finds herself at a loss for words—she's already told him what she had to, and explaining it feels a bit like dropping her point altogether.

Then, he says, "Oh, Pond," and looks away, and time picks up where it left off.

-

0.

What it comes down to is: there's an—_incident_, in Paris.

It's the Paris she's known all her life, the Paris from her books and pictures and films, but walking down its streets with the Doctor—and she's surprised she even gets to do that, considering the Doctor's amazing ability to land the two of them right in the middle of trouble—feels surreal, like the other planets she's visited are the familiar ones, or just like she's being led around by someone with a deranged sense of direction.

The Doctor's city tours are like the bastard child of a sightseeing bus route and a native stray cat. Every ten minutes she catches a glimpse of something really, monumentally famous, and gets to watch it with narrowed eyes for a few seconds while the Doctor does whatever it is the Doctor does when she's not looking at him, and then there's this shortcut to somewhere or this loaf of bread he just caught a whiff of and they're meandering through backstreets and stumbling in and out of culs-de-sac. It's not a very uniform experience.

"Here," the Doctor says, and plops down on a bench. It's facing the river, which is surprisingly predictable, and clearly a sign Amy should not even bother sitting down. "In about five minutes, it's going to be beautiful."

There's a row of boats a little ways away just getting ready to sail, which is probably what that timeframe's got to do with, but the landscape is already absolutely gorgeous—not only the boats and the far-off bridge and the shimmering sunlight on the surface of the water, but also the buildings surrounding them, the street lamps, the busyness of the street... hell, even the freaking sidewalk's got a charm to it.

She's got more energy saved up than anyone she's ever met, except maybe the Doctor himself, but the last four hours have been exhausting, and to add to it, Amy's been feeling—lately, for the past week definitely at least—this strange weight on her, like a nagging presence in the back of her mind that never sets out a clear point but constantly wears her out, so, even though there's quite enough room on the bench, she squeezes in next to the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder.

There's something relieved about her breathing now, she notices, just as the Doctor absently wraps a hand over her waist, comforting. Like—like this is _Paris_, not a place she's never heard of or thought she'd ever see, and if she can find it beautiful despite all the amazing things she's seen since she jumped on the TARDIS, maybe she won't—miss all of that, or hate everything about this planet because it is not a new and exciting one when it comes time to go back home. Not that she's—thinking about that, much. Right now. Or ever. She'll go on travelling through time and space with the Doctor all her life if she's got half a say on the matter.

The five minutes aren't up when she dozes off on his shoulder, and there must pass some time between then and the moment she opens her eyes again, because the sun's not nearly as aggressive after, and the city seems slightly greyer.

She turns her chin to the Doctor, drawing her head back and off of him. He's looking at her—staring, almost, _gazing_ with this reticent touch to his cheeks that seems completely irrelevant when she notes the overwhelming focus of his eyes on her, curious and—confused, for the Doctor, and affectionate.

And she's going to mock him for it, she is, except it feels great to be on the receiving end of all that attention, and then there's a palm covering her jawline, and she can't remember what she wanted to say, and he's leaning in to kiss her.

It's so slow and gentle it feels like she's still asleep, just lips on lips and that soft grip on her face and their noses brushing, just really simple and—and nice. It's nice, and the type of kiss that really just fits the moment, and it's not at all that she doesn't like it, but it's really second instinct for her to deepen it—not because of the kiss-o-gram gig, she wouldn't kiss just anybody back, let alone push them further, but it's the Doctor, and he seems unusually pliable right now, mouth opening up slightly when she teases her tongue over it, responding, stroking the side of her neck with his fingertips.

And then, as abruptly as it began naturally, the Doctor takes a short, loud breath, steals a last quick peck, and lets go of her.

"All right then," he says, leaping to his feet and looking around as though he just recalled he was supposed to remember something. "Where were we?"

"If you mean _just now_, we were—"

"Ah," the Doctor says, lifting a finger to stop her from finishing her sentence, and doesn't even finish his own—instead of that, he points at a street sign Amy's not even quite able to read before he pulls her up and turns them both onto the opposite direction.

-

4.

So it's not like she randomly decided to seduce the Doctor. Again. It was just the only next logical step in the journey _he_ had started. Actions have consequences, and Amy feels it is only fair for her to know what in the world was going through his head when _he_ kissed _her_, and why they're not supposed to acknowledge it, and to let him know she didn't mind at all and would really quite like to do it again, if—well, whether it is or isn't too much trouble.

That is just what it is. Only fair.

She picks up the conversation again when they're on firmer ground. She's hoping the sunset's on her side, and the walking, and the relative lateness of the hour.

"Am I just making things up? Thinking you like me more than just as a—travelling companion, or whatever you're calling us these days? Because what happened—you _know_ what happened—that did not feel like just that. Or like a mistake. Or like you saw me just as a friend, either, and I've got an eye for these things."

The Doctor slows their pace down. She gives him the benefit of the silence—he's not looking at her, which means at least he's not getting ready to pretend the only thing that ever happened between them—other than everything that carried no overt romantic implications—was a misled attempt to seduce him in her childhood bedroom. She imagines he must be debating, finally, if he should deny it all again, and that's more than she's achieved so far.

"Of course you're not, Pond," the Doctor says, "and you even appeal to me on the level you're thinking about, which is absolutely inconvenient and doesn't change a single thing, but I think you might like to know that's not why I'm rejecting your advances," and heat rushes up her cheeks. It's—she was _hoping_, but hoping and _knowing_ he looks at her that way are two completely different things. It's an attainability scale. Zero—well, one. Maybe two. She had an inkling—was hot, but this is a _thrill_.

"So why does it have to be a battle?"

The Doctor presses his lips together and shakes his head. "I don't know if you've realised this, but you're emotional. You've gone on a bit of a ride today. It wouldn't be fair."

"Why wouldn't it be? I've tried before," Amy argues.

"That wouldn't have been fair to you either," the Doctor says.

"Well, all right, but I've _tried before_, so you should damn well know I mean it. That's not really the problem, though, is it? So what is?" She gasps, mocking. "Are you bad in bed?"

The Doctor looks at her blankly, not bothering to dignify the question with any sort of answer.

Amy scrunches her nose up at him. "Secretly a fish? I probably couldn't deal with that, won't lie—secretly a girl? Now _that_ I could work with. Secretly ancient?"

"I'm not secretly any of those things—the first two I'm not, not the way you see them anyway, and the third I've never in my life made a secret of—"

"Well, so what's wrong? Are you, I don't know, asexual?"

"I wouldn't call that something that's wrong," the Doctor chastises. He's getting extremely comfortable doing that.

"Oh. Right. Sorry," Amy says, not that she meant to imply anything by what she said, but—she needs to work on that. "But are you?"

The Doctor stares at her for an instant—then he opens his mouth to say something, closes it before it comes out, and opens it again to say, eyes slightly narrowed, "Yes. That's precisely it."

It is obviously a lie. She knows that, and he knows she knows that, and she's not going to pretend she doesn't know he knows she knows that because that would be too silly for eight in the evening in _Paris_, so she just stares at him until he amends his statement of his own volition.

It doesn't take too long.

"That's not a lie," the Doctor says. "I have been. Frequently, in fact. Nearly always. Regeneration is a tricky business. But that's not why this is a bad idea. Would be a— No. It would be a bad idea because we're travelling together, and you—" He waves his hand.

"Us—girls?" Amy offers, crossing her arms over her stomach.

"—you _humans_ are horridly prickly about mixing sex into all sorts of relationships. You label and cajole and withhold and resent and if I let _our_ relationship take on a sexual component I'd eventually inevitably end up doing something to offend you and then I'd have to take you back home and leave you there, and—_or_, worse, make you forget—" His voice falters at that, weirdly, and when he picks up the sentence, it has a much slower cadence, a softer air. "Make you forget I ever happened to you."

After a stretch of silence, she says, pointedly, "Not everybody's wired the same," and his face brightens again, slightly, in amusement.

"I wouldn't risk it."

"I would." She shrugs.

"But I like having you around with me, so _I_ wouldn't." He holds up a finger when she opens her mouth and, tapping her nose with a bizarre expression on his face, concludes, "And I believe that puts an end to this debate."

-

5.

There's a weirdly polite knock on her door when she's straightening out her nightgown—short and satin and light silvery blue, just like the tone of the walls and furniture in her room —and she takes a few long seconds to pull a robe over herself before warily turning to see who it is.

The Doctor startles when he sees her—and that's just another thing, he was the one who _knocked_, though maybe she should thank her lucky stars he didn't just break in. He takes a look at her, nods curtly, and makes a show of taking deep breath, like he's about to sprint out a monologue.

She narrows her eyes at him.

"I want you to know I still think this is a horrible idea—"

"I want to _shine_ for my grand balcony moment," she blurts out. It's the first thing that crosses her mind, and she knows it's stupid and it sounds petulant, but she doesn't care, and the Doctor would've said something if he minded that by now, respectively. "It would be unfair to Paris otherwise, and there'll be no shining going on my end if I have to listen to you give a speech on the dangers of getting involved with your alien roomma—"

She's pretty sure she can keep going for long enough to crush even the last remnants of any desire he may harbour to lecture her on why she shouldn't pursue what _he_ started, but suddenly there are no words coming out of her mouth, and she has to do a—quick, very quick, barely even worth mentioning—double take to catch on to the fact that he's _kissing her_.

It's—annoying, is what it is, that of all possible circumstances and ways to acquiesce he chose to cut her off when she was in the middle of a—a stupid rant that he couldn't be sure would remain stupid till the end, but the Doctor's nerve with regards to her is fickle, so she just goes with it. In a way, kissing back is like she's still talking. Just it's a different conversation, that's all—or the same one, only this time they're both on the same page.

Also, she imagines not kissing the Doctor would take a massive amount of effort she's not even a little bit willing to attempt, but if anybody asks: perfectly conscious, reasonable decision.

She thinks she makes up for her initial _slowness_ by throwing herself into the new direction this conversation's taken as quickly as humanly possible.

"Well, then," she says, licking her lips and clutching those stupid braces he insists on wearing to pull him down, "come _on_. Make _me_ happy. Stop being so uptight for once."

Perhaps she catches on a little too enthusiastically, too, but she's been obsessing over this for what feels like _months_.

"I'm not uptight," the Doctor says, looking shocked but keeping his hands firm and chaste on her waist all the same. "Am I uptight?"

"_Yes_, you are. It's one of those really idiotic things you somehow—" She tilts her head thoughtfully, slowing down. His thumbs shift on the edges of her belly, reluctant. "—sort of, _kind of_, _maybe_—" She pauses—the Doctor's smiling down at her, a little crooked, a little playful, and he's thumbing circles lower on her abdomen, within the bracket of her hipbones. She squirms a little. Her thighs tighten. What was she even— "—pull off," she finishes, even though her body's still reacting inappropriately, and he seems too aware of it for the whole thing to be anything but deliberate. "Or fake well. Don't let it go to your head. It's already big enough."

"If that's what you want," he says, but his expression isn't really smug as much as just—observant. Interested. If his hands didn't already have her wriggling out of her skin, the look on his face certainly would make her. His mouth is half open, ready and inviting, and his eyes are a little dazed, and she wants to mess up his hair. Which she totally can do, so she runs her fingers up his neck and the back of his head, pulling him down for another taste of his lips.

She manages to unclasp the braces on front and yank his shirt out of his trousers before she breaks away slowly, enjoying the way he follows the motion for quite a few seconds, and takes a good look at him.

Dishevelled is a great look on him—mouth swollen and messy clothes and trousers stretching over his hardening dick—and of course she knew that already, except her reality-based visual might not have included that last part, but it's different now she's allowed to bask in it, and she's nothing less than proud of herself for having caused it.

He lets her drag him around and walk him back to the bed. She doesn't know if he likes that or if he's just set on giving her what she wants after basically starting something, starting _everything_ and leaving her hanging. She takes the chance gladly either way, pushing him down onto the mattress until he lies back and she can drop to her knees right between his parted legs and free his cock just enough to get her mouth on it.

She doesn't plan to get him off that way—she makes a mental note to ask him about refractory periods across the universe later, but she really wants to have that beautiful cock buried deep inside her within the next ten minutes, and she's not risking it. She just kisses and licks for a while, sucking lightly on the head when she wants to hear some noise from him, rolling his balls in her hands when she wants his hips to buck up. She sheds her robe onto the floor, and tries to keep his clothes as on as possible—those stupid braces look incredibly useful all of a sudden, and she's fairly certain he's not yet looking as messy as he could be.

When she feels she's had enough of the Doctor lying back and letting her do all the work—enough of his taste in her mouth, enough that she's so wet it's seeped through and around fabric and made her inner thighs damp with it—she wriggles out of her knickers and climbs over him, clutching the tail of his shirt as she goes.

She ducks her head into his neck, biting at his earlobe just hard enough to make him curse, and says, clear and steady, an order—a dare—more than a plead, "Now fuck me."

"Don't you think you're a little too—on top of m—"

The bundled fabric in her hands makes it easy to roll them over before he's even got the question out, and he trails off rather than going back to it. It feels like payback for shutting her up earlier, which wasn't part of her reasoning when she decided to do this, but she's quick enough to enjoy like it was.

She tells him to stay dressed before he undoes a third button on his shirt, shrugging with just a little less determination than she'd like when he smiles knowingly at her. It's just not all that easy to tell if he's impressed or just downright mocking her, and then he says, "I didn't realise I was wearing all these props on me," matter of fact and sort of—happy to have realised that.

He's _weird_, is all to it, she supposes, and finds his undone bowtie to fling it around the back of his neck, still maybe kind of embarrassed, but nowhere near shy enough not to hold onto both ends and make good use of it while he fucks her.

They collapse across the bed, after, and Amy turns her head to the side, watching the curtains sail swirls between room and balcony.

"Well," she breathes, feeling a pathetic grin form on her face as a damp, sweaty hand curls around her wrist, "that's a way to get a glow."

-

7.

It doesn't stop happening after Paris, nor does the Doctor attempt to make light of it, or go back to pushing her off when she comes near.

It's not at all the kind of problematic situation the Doctor predicted it would be—it's casual, mostly, and having given in once only really means he lets himself—and her—get caught up in each other more often than before, which Amy sees nothing wrong with, and maybe _some_—few, very few, barely even worth mentioning—times it interferes for a second or two with more important matters, but it's never a setback they can't get around, and nothing Amy can't get some makeup sex out of.

There's only that nagging in her head, still, as insistent as before, as unclear, but it seems to let up sometimes, like it approves of her hooking up with the Doctor even if there's something more important she's not tending to, which is—_crazy_, picking up feelings in her feelings, but it gives Amy a certain peace of mind she wasn't aware she was missing.

None of it is her fault, but she's happy to take responsibility.

-

6.

"Did you ever tell me what Vincent _saw_ that was so urgent I knew it couldn't wait for us to land?" the Doctor asks late the next morning, when they're walking back to the TARDIS, taking the long, crowded way at Amy's request.

He'd remember if she had, doubtlessly, which makes that a quite weak conversation starter, but she says all the same, "I don't think I did."

"So what was it? Do I even want to know?"

"He thought we were shagging," Amy says, grinning bright and delighted at the Doctor's blank expression. "He'd be proud of us," she muses sunnily.

"You shouldn't invest so much in everyone you meet," the Doctor says, effectively switching the topic, and managing to sound simultaneously like he's giving sound, contained, serious advice and absolutely hopeless.

Amy laughs and says, knocking their arms together, "I'll keep that in mind."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for: two prompts at a DW S5 ficathon from June, one asking for Vincent thinking Amy and the Doctor are together, one asking for hotel room sex in Paris. It was also influenced (moved along?) by the prompt "abridged" at the Porn Battle X, and I'm also counting it for the 'shut-up kiss' square on my kissbingo card.


End file.
